■>■>> 


,c^-    oj    (     «Ci 


EASTER 

-    AT    - 
WINSTON- 
SALEM 
NORTH 
CAROLINA 


1    i 


~: 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/easteratwinstonsOOadam 


Foreword 


NO  more  interested  listener  has  ever  attended 
the  Moravian  Services,  held  on  Easter 
Morning  at  Wins  ton- Salem,  North  Carolina, 
than  Mrs.  Crosby  Adams,  whose  account  written  in 
"The  Music  News,"  Chicago,  June  9,  1916,  is  now 
printed  in  booklet  form.  Each  recurring  year  finds 
new  as  well  as  old  friends  who  are  attracted  to 
these  gatherings,  and  for  them  this  account  appears 
in  permanent  shape. 

A  well-known  writer  has  this  personal  word  to 
say:     "1  do  not  know  when  I  have  been  so  deeply 
touched  as  by  your  description  of  that  Easter  Serv- 
ice.    The  pictures,  showing  that  quiet,  unostenta- 
tious graveyard  and  the  Cedar  Avenue,  the  account 
of  the  breaking  of  the  dawn,  the  Chorales,  the 
placing  of  flowers  on  the  graves,  all  is  so 
beautiful,  so  appealing  and  comfort- 
ing, that  I  read  everything  over 
twice.    I  shall  preserve  the 
article  among  my  cher- 
ished possessions." 


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Introduction 


PERHAPS  no  one  has  interpreted  with  more  sympathy 
the  spirit  of  the  Moravian  Easter  Services  as  held  in 
the  Salem  Congregation,  than  Mrs.  Crosby  Adams,  of  Mon- 
treat  and  Chicago,  whose  interesting  and  appreciative 
article  is  herewith  reprinted. 

There  are  obvious  reasons  why  one  who  is  at  the  same 
time  a  gifted  musician,  a  skilled  teacher  and  possessed  of 
spiritual  vision,  should  see  so  deeply  into  the  inner  mean- 
ing of  this,  at  once  so  simple  and  so  profound  a  celebration 
of  the  Death,  Burial,  and  Resurrection,  of  our  Blessed 
Lord. 

Those  of  us,  who  have  grown  up  in  the  joy  and  inspira- 
tion of  this  annually  recurring  service,  have  long  loved  its 
simplicity,  have  appreciated  its  sincerity  and  have  experi- 
enced the  deep  moving  of  its  living  spiritual  power. 

It  is  a  great  joy  to  us  who  are  the  children  of  this 
Church,  to  have,  anew,  interpreted  to  us  by  so  sensitive  a 
mind,  the  hidden  spiritual  meaning  of  this  distinctive  Easter 
service  which  has  always  been  part  of  our  happy  spiritual 
heritage. 

It  is  well  within  our  expectation  that  through  the  wider 
publication  of  this  sketch,  a  deeper  understanding  will  be 
granted  those  who  may  hereafter  experience  Easter  at 
Salem,  and  new  friends  will  likewise  be  gathered  who  will 
come  under  the  comforts  and  inspiration  of  these  services. 


As  our  forefathers  declared  with  clear,  quiet  faith  through 
many  generations,  so  may  we  with  joy  repeat,  "The  Lord 
is  risen,  the  Lord  is  risen,  indeed." 

Howard  E.  Rondthaler. 
A  Salem  College, 

•v,  Winston-Salem,  N.  C. 


Page  Three 


EASTER  AT 
WINSTON-SALEM 
NORTH  CAROLINA 

By  Mrs.  Crosby  Adams 

VISITOR  in  one  of  our  large  and  ever 
growing  Western  cities  had  been  royally  en- 
tertained by  his  host,  who  had  spared  no 
time  nor  expense  to  show  his  distinguished 
guest  the  evidences  of  material  prosperity  as 
■  seen  in  the  imposing  buildings  and  industrial 
plants  which  mark  that  city  as  an  unusual  center  of  human 
activity.  The  guest  duly  commented  on  the  civic  pride  and 
enterprise  that  had  made  such  things  come  to  pass,  and 
then  said:  "But  where  are  the  shrines?"  The  host  was  at 
a  loss  to  answer  this  question,  for  not  only  had  this  city 
failed  to  treasure  its  early  history,  but  it  had  ruthlessly  de- 
stroyed certain  landmarks  that  would  have  grown  more 
precious  as  the  years  passed  by.  Feeling  the  full  force  of 
his  guest's  query  as  never  before,  he  regretfully  replied, 
"There  are  none." 

Webster  defines  a  shrine,  as  "A  place  hallowed  by  its 
history  or  associations."  Such  a  place  is  Winston-Salem, 
N.  C,  and  because  of  these  hallowed  associations  each  re- 
curring Eastertime  finds  many  a  visitor  journeying  towards 
this  Southern  city  to  listen  to  the  services  of  Passion  Week, 
held  in  the  Moravian  Church.  I  say  "listen"  advisedly.  It 
is  not  a  place  for  the  curious  or  for  those  who  desire  excite- 
ment, but  rather  for  the  thoughtful,  reverent  and  attentive 
hearer.  And  such  there  are  in  numbers  who  come  annually 
to  these  unique  services.  For  myself,  it  was  the  first  time. 
First  times  are,  as  a  rule,  the  best  times.  When  one  hears 
a  great  orchestra  or  a  great  chorus  for  the  first  time,  for 
instance,  one  is  to  be  congratulated,  for  never  again  can 
like  sensations  be  experienced.  So  to  me,  the  sensations 
experienced  this  first  time  at  Winston-Salem  can  never  be 
duplicated. 


Page  Four 


II 


As  I  journeyed  to  the  city  from  my  home  up  in  the 
mountains  there  were  several  unusual  things  to  enjoy  en 
route.  To  begin  with,  this  church  festival  day  came  un- 
usually late  this  year  (April  23d  being  an  Easter  date  that 
will  not  occur  again  until  the  year  2000,  although  1943 
Easter  will  fall  on  the  25th  of  April) ,  therefore  spring  had 
"come  laughing  o'er  vale  and  hill,"  and  all  along  the  way 
were  the  entrancing  tints  of  the  early  foliage,  the  tender 
greens  and  soft  pinks  and  browns  being  veritable  pastel 
colorings,  while  the  wild  flowers  were  in  full  bloom. 

There  is  a  very  interesting  flower  custom  in  Winston- 
Salem;  it  is  to  tenderly  nurture  the  bulbs  and  early  garden 
posies  so  they  may  mature  not  only  at  their  appointed  time, 
but  crown  this  particular  day  with  their  loveliness.  But 
this  year,  nature  being  so  well  along  with  her  reckoning, 
many  flowers  had  come  and  gone,  so  the  residents  had  to 
plan  otherwise.  The  flower  shops  offered  most  alluring  dis- 
plays, and  never  were  pure  Easter  lilies  statelier  or  lovelier 
than  at  this  season,  and  there  was  a  generous  supply  for 
everyone  who  desired  them. 

A  brief  word  is  in  order  about  the  Moravian  Church. 
"The  Moravian  Church  is  the  oldest  of  Protestant  churches, 
and  had  its  beginning  in  Southwest  Europe  in  1457.  Its 
labors  for  the  Kingdom  were  begun  in  America  in  1740. 
The  story  of  the  growth  and  development  of  this  church  is 
one  of  deep  human  interest,  and  among  Christians  every- 
where the  Moravian  Church  is  known  and  esteemed  for  her 
noble  history,  her  beautiful  forms  of  worship,  the  simplicity 
of  her  faith — the  one  article  of  this  faith  being  'To  love  our 
Lord  Jesus  in  sincerity,  and  to  live  to  His  glory' — her  world- 
wide unity,  her  fellowship  with  all  believers,  her  interest  in 
education  and  her  pioneer  work  in  missions.  This  denomi- 
nation rejoices  to  believe  in  the  familiar  presence  of  the 
Divine  Savior,  to  whom  every  question  of  the  daily  life  can 
be  referred.  The  beautiful  worship  of  this  church  appeals 
to  old  and  young.  The  music  has  for  many,  many  years 
been  a  source  of  power  and  inspiration.  This  is  especially 
true  in  the  congregational  singing  of  the  great  chorales  of 
the  church  in  their  ancient  four  part  form." 

I  have  written  of  what  it  means  to  "listen."     Perhaps 


1  I 


Page  Five 


Page  Six 


1 1 


nothing  illustrates  more  fully  my  meaning  of  the  term  in 
this  connection  than  to  tell  of  the  Moravian  custom  of  an- 
nouncing the  death  of  one  of  its  members.  They  divide 
their  congregation  or  community  into  six  classes  or  "choirs," 
namely,  married  men,  married  women,  single  men,  single 
women,  boys  and  girls.  When  any  member  dies  the  trom- 
bone choir  ascends  the  church  tower  and  plays  the  chorale, 
"0  Sacred  Head  Now  Wounded,"  then  another  chorale 
which  determines  the  sex  of  the  one  who  has  died  and  his 
or  her  class  or  "choir,"  and  finally  the  first  chorale  is  re- 
peated. This  custom  reveals  to  the  listener  who  it  is  that 
has  passed  over  the  river,  or  who  has  "crossed  the  bar,"  as 
Tennyson  so  beautifully  expresses  it.  None  of  that  utter 
sadness  of  soul  seems  to  be  the  experience  of  those  con- 
nected with  this  denomination  in  their  attitude  towards 
death.  Can  you  imagine  what  comfort  it  must  be  to  lift 
one's  eyes  to  these  mottoes  that  are  graven  over  the  several 
gates  that  lead  to  the  graveyard  from  the  noble  "avenue" 
that  is  the  approach  to  "God's  acre"?  Here  are  the  re- 
assuring words  found  on  either  side  of  the  arches,  wrought 
in  lettering  that  does  not  fade  nor  tarnish,  because  care  is 
expended  to  keep  clear  and  bright  these  illuminating 
phrases:  First — "I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."  And 
on  the  reverse  side,  "Them  also  which  sleep  in  Jesus  will 
God  bring  with  Him."  Second — "Because  I  live,  ye  shall 
live  also."  Third,  in  the  same  order — "I  am  the  Resurrec- 
tion and  the  Life."  "Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the 
Lord."  Fourth— "The  Lord  God  giveth  them  light."  "And 
they  shall  reign  forever  and  ever."  And  on  the  fifth  and 
last  gate,  "Till  the  day  break."  "And  the  shadows  flee 
away." 

This  avenue  presents  an  uncommon  picture,  with  its  tall 
trees  covered  with  English  ivy  so  old  that  it  has  assumed 
unusual  shapes  and  the  foliage  seems  unlike  that  found 
down  near  the  ground.  It  has  possessed  the  neighboring 
trees  and  the  friendly  fence  as  well.  An  enormous  box- 
wood tree,  which  must  be  fully  100  years  old,  is  a  very  in- 
teresting object  to  study  and  enjoy.  Indeed  nature  has 
been  very  lavish  also  in  providing  a  great  number  of  noble 
old    trees    for    the    background.      The    graves    are    simple 


Page  Seven 


mounds  each  with  a  square  stone  lying  flat  at  the  head. 
They  are  in  groups  of  sixty-six  in  each  plat,  these  being 
surrounded  by  well  kept  paths.  In  these  plats  are  sections 
apportioned  to  the  various  "choirs"  or  classes,  the  men, 
women  and  children  in  their  several  groups,  as  indicated  in 
another  part  of  this  article,  instead  of  in  family  lots.  Here 
lie  together  rich  and  poor,  no  rank  nor  station  being  noted, 
death  indeed  being  the  leveler.  The  entire  absence  of 
monuments  of  miscellaneous  sizes  and  designs  is  a  most 
welcome  prospect  to  the  eye  as  one  takes  in  the  wooded 
vistas  in  every  direction.  In  passing,  one  would  linger  to 
decipher  lettering  now  all  but  obliterated  which  told  of  the 
faithful  one  who  had  laid  down  life's  activities  in  1771. 
Many  other  dates  were  almost  equally  remote. 

Desiring  to  hear  as  much  of  the  Passion  Week  services 
as  possible,  I  arrived  in  time  for  the  Communion  held 
Thursday  evening  in  the  newly  remodeled  old  church.  The 
dates  near  the  pulpit,  1766-1916,  revealed  the  fact  that  the 
community  was  established  on  the  former  date  and  that 
they  had  recently  celebrated  their  one  hundred  and  fiftieth 
anniversary.  It  is  most  interesting  to  imagine  the  succes- 
sive stages  of  growth  from  the  primitive  conditions  of  the 
old  Moravian  Church  of  long  ago  to  this  up-to-date  edifice, 
simple  and  unpretentious,  yet  finished  in  excellent  quiet 
taste,  with  a  good  organ,  perfect  heating  and  ventilating 
and  indirect  lighting.  One  feels  the  welcome  extended  even 
before  reading  "Welcome  to  the  Home  Church."  The  serv- 
ices for  Passion  Week  are  arranged  in  sequence  so  that  the 
continuous  story  of  Christ's  Passion,  up  to  and  including  the 
Resurrection,  are  each  in  turn  celebrated.  They  are  inter- 
spersed with  the  grand  old  chorales  of  the  church,  sung  by 
all  the  people  on  every  occasion.  These  are  sung  as  a  rule 
from  memory,  both  as  to  words  and  music,  but  the  text  is 
furnished  for  those  who  do  not  know  them.  The  worship- 
fulness  and  churchly  dignity  of  each  service  are  most  im- 
pressive. One  could  not  fail  to  be  touched  by  the  message, 
told  as  it  is  in  song  and  story.  These  preparatory  periods 
of  worship  should,  if  possible,  be  heard  before  the  crowning 
event,  Easter  Day.  This  day,  so  anticipated,  is  ushered  in 
by  the  playing  of  a  band  of  silver  and  wood  instruments  to 


Page  Eight 


I 


the  number  of  over  one  hundred.  Many  of  the  players  have 
performed  this  labor  of  love  for  years  in  order  to  perpetuate 
the  traditions.  Others,  young  college  students,  plan  to  be 
there  to  lend  their  aid,  while  young  boys  are  also  seen  in 
the  group.  This  band  is  divided  into  smaller  sections  which 
are  appointed  to  different  parts  of  the  city,  where  they 
play  these  same  chorales  familiar  to  old  and  young  alike. 
The  strains  of  music  float  to  one's  ears  between  two  and 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  quite  fittingly  the  first 
chorale  given  is  "Sleepers,  Awake."  This  means  if  one  is 
to  go  to  the  sunrise  service  in  the  graveyard  (the  Moravians 
do  not  say  cemetery) ,  that  no  time  must  be  lost. 

We  were  fortunate  guests  of  President  and  Mrs.  Howard 
Rondthaler  at  Salem  College  for  breakfast  at  the  unusual 
hour  of  four-fifty.  This  early  meal  is  in  truth  only  intended 
as  a  "break-fast"  in  the  old  accepted  sense  of  the  word,  but 
affords  the  refreshment  needed  at  the  outset  of  the  day. 
Fruit  and  coffee,  and  a  certain  favorite  "sugar  cake"  made 
at  this  special  time,  were  served  to  the  students  and  guests. 
We  then  assembled  in  the  church,  which  adjoins  the  col- 
lege, and  heard  the  directions  given  to  the  different  mar- 
shals of  the  day,  then  wended  our  way  to  the  street  to  find 
a  gathering  multitude  of  people.  The  first  rays  of  light 
were  just  coming  over  the  eastern  horizon  and  by  its  dim 
reflection  we  could  follow  the  printed  service.  Bishop 
Edward  Rondthaler,  beloved  by  all  people  of  all  creeds, 
stood  on  the  church  steps  and  began  this  impressive  serv- 
ice in  a  clear,  ringing  voice.  Each  recurring  season  the 
people  wait  for  this  significant  moment,  as  he  says,  "The 
Lord  is  risen!"  The  multitude  make  answer,  "The  Lord  is 
risen  indeed!"  Then  followed  scripture  passages  and  cho- 
rales, after  which  we  all  started  up  the  beautiful  avenue 
already  described  which  leads  to  the  Moravian  graveyard. 
A  group  of  players  headed  the  procession  and  played  two 
lines  of  a  hymn  tune,  another  group  at  a  distance  answer- 
ing with  the  following  two  lines  until  the  hymn  was  com- 
pleted. 

When  the  middle  gate  was  reached  all  entered  the  grave- 
yard. The  ranks  of  four  abreast  were  close  together,  and 
it  took  a  long  time  before  the  throng  of  10,000  people  were 


Page  Ten 


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Page  Eleven 


within  the  enclosure  and  quietly  standing  to  hear  the 
Bishop  continue  the  service.  This  was  held  around  the  plat 
set  apart  for  the  earliest  members  of  the  church,  long  since 
gone  to  their  reward.  The  concluding  words  of  this  early 
morning  service  must  have  touched  every  heart.  No  pen 
can  well  describe  this  impressive  scene  of  the  thronging 
multitude,  who  had  gathered  to  commemorate  this  supreme 
fact  of  human  history.  One  felt  nothing  but  gladness  and 
uplift,  and  the  troubled  soul,  even  through  tears,  could  al- 
most catch  the  vision  of  the  risen  Christ,  "who  died  to 
save  us  all."  The  sun  was  now  high  enough  in  the  heavens 
to  give  promise  of  a  fair  Easter  Day. 

As  we  walked  quietly  away  we  saw  the  Easter  lilies  lift- 
ing their  scented  chalices  to  the  early  morning  light,  hun- 
dreds of  them,  as  well  as  countless  other  blossoms,  laid 
upon  the  graves  by  loving,  reverent  hands.  Earlier  in  the 
week  the  headstones  had  been  thoroughly  scrubbed  and 
were,  save  those  weatherbeaten  with  age,  white  as  the 
driven  snow.  Some  graves  were  quite  hidden  by  sprays  of 
magnolia  leaves.  A  pall  of  solid  wisteria  caught  the  eye 
as  one  passed  a  mound,  a  rarely  beautiful  offering  to  North 
Carolina's  poet,  John  Henry  Boner.  Another  mound  had 
violets  rooted  and  bravely  growing,  and  recalled  the  lovely 
closing  verses  of  Homer  Norris'  exquisite  Easter  Carol, 
which  reads: 

O  violets  tender, 

Your    shy    tributes    render! 
Tie  round  your  wet  faces  your  soft  hoods  of  blue; 

And   carry   your   sweetness, 

Your   dainty   completeness, 
To   some   tired   hand   that   is   longing  for   you. 

O  world  bowed   and  broken 

With    anguish    unspoken, 
Take  heart  and  be  glad,  for  the  Lord  is  not  dead. 

On    some   bright    tomorrow 

Your   black   cloud   of   sorrow 
Will  break  in  a  sweet  rain  of  joy  on  your  head. 

Arriving  at  our  various  homes  or  stopping  places  about 
7  gave  time  for  breakfast  and  a  little  rest  before  the  11 
o'clock  service.  This  was  the  typical  Easter  service  as 
usually  held  in  any  church  that  marks  the  day  as  it  should 
be  observed — responsive  readings,  the  dear  chorales,  now 
with  the  note  of  uplift,  two  anthems  by  the  well  trained 
choir  of  mixed  voices,  and  appropriate  selections   by  the 


Page  Twelve 


organist,  Dean  H.  A.  Shirley,  of  Salem  College,  who  had 
also  played  for  all  the  previous  hours  of  worship.  I  was 
much  interested  in  the  harmonic  settings  of  these  chorales, 
ranging  as  they  did  from  Bach  to  Max  Reger. 

The  evening  meeting  brought  to  a  quiet  end  the  story 
or  narrative,  chosen  as  usual  from  the  Bible,  with  fitting 
music,  the  exultant  note  of  the  resurrection  always  up- 
permost. 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  of  a  simple  yet  beautiful 
series  of  services  without  quoting  the  following  poem  by 
Helen  Ekin  Starrett,  who  has  caught,  with  the  poet's  rare 
insight,  the  true  vision  of  immortality,  as  she  says: 

EASTER 
Again  the  spring!     Again  the  Easter  lily; 

Again  the  soft,  warm  air  with  odors  rife; 
Again  the  tender  green  on  hill  and  valley; 

Again  the  miracle  of  risen  life! 

Again   from   the   dark   mold  of  their  entombing, 
In   all   their  lovely   robes   of   radiant   hue, 

The  crocus  and  the  violet  are  blooming, 

The  selfsame  flowers  our  earliest  childhood  knew; 

Again  the  birds   in  joyous   flocks  are  winging, 
Chirping  their  notes   of  love   and  nesting  days; 

Again   the   sound   of  happy  children   singing 
Along  the  lanes  and  in  the  woodland  ways. 

And,  as  I  gaze  and  listen,  tears  are  welling — 
Glad,  happy  tears  that  in  my  heart  a  voice 

Answers    the    budding   trees    and    blossoms    swelling, 
And   in  earth's    springtime   gladness   can   rejoice. 

For  of  this  lovely  life  around  me   springing 

My  inmost  being  feels  itself  a  part; 
"This  is  immortal  life,"  my  soul  is   singing; 

"This  is  immortal  hope  within  the  heart." 
f 

"Father  of  Spirits" — thus  my  soul  is  saying — 

"Because  Thou  livest  we   shall   ever  live; 
Life   and   not  death   Thy  universe   is    swaying; 

Life  Thou  has  given,  and  wilt  ever  give. 

"And  the  dear  loved  ones,   gone  beyond  our   seeing, 
Toward  whom  our  hearts  still  yearn  so  tenderly, 

In  Thee  they  live  and  move  and  have  their  being; 
Not  lost,  nor  changed,  they  live  again  in  Thee. 

"What    glad    new    life    is    theirs,    this    sweet    spring 
morning? 
In  that  far  Heaven  of  Love  that  is  their  home! 
Can   sweeter   flowers   bloom   for   its   adorning 
Than    those    which    ever    with    earth's    springtime 
come? 

"O  Death,  thy  victory  is   only   seeming! 

O    Grave,    thy    sting    but    ends    earth's    pain    and 
strife! 
Through  them  all   souls  at  last  to  Thee  are  coming 

Who  art  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 


Page  Thirteen 


rriHESE  lines   commemorating  the   "Avenue,"   leading  to  the 
_L    Salem    Graveyard,    were    written    by    John    Henry    Boner, 
born    in    Salem,    N.    C,    1845. 
He  lies  buried  in  this   Graveyard,   and  his   gravestone   bears 
the   following   inscription,    written   by   his   friend   and   admirer, 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman: 

"That  gentlest  of  minstrels  who  caught  his 
music  from  the  whispering  pines" 

How  Oft  IVe  Trod  That 

Shadowy  Way 

Full  many  a  peaceful  place  I've  seen, 
But  the  most  restful  spot  I  know 
Is  one  where  thick  dark  cedars  grow 
In  an  old  graveyard  cool  and  green. 

The  way  to  the  sequestered  place 
Is  arched  with  boughs  of  that  sad  tree, 
And  there  the  trivial  step  of  glee 
Must  sober  to  a  pensive  pace. 

• 

i 

How  oft  I've  trod  that  shadowy  way 
In  bygone  years — sometimes  while  yet 
The  grass  with  morning  dew  was  wet, 
And  sometimes  at  the  close  of  day, 

And  sometimes  when  the  summer  noon 
Hung  like  a  slumberous  midnight  spell — 
Sometimes  when  through  the  dark  trees  fell 
The  sacred  whiteness  of  the  moon. 

Then  is  the  hour  to  wander  there, 
When  moonlight  silvers  tree  and  stone 
And  in  the  soft  night  wind  is  blown 
Ethereal  essence  subtly  rare. 

At  such  an  hour  the  angels  tread 
That  hallowed  spot  in  stoles  as  white 
As  lilies,  and  in  silent  flight 
They  come  and  go  till  dawn  is  red. 

% 

rxiTJ 

* 

Page  Fifteen 

1 

City  Bells 

• 

A  sound  of  music  gently  swells 

i 

Along  the  breeze — it  comes   and   goes 

Faintly,  and  now  to  clamor  grows. 

The  bells  are  ringing — Sabbath  bells. 

From  Belfries  dedicate  to  saints, 

And  steeples  called  by  holy  names 

Of  men  who  died  for  Christ  in  flames, 

The  music  bursts,  and  flies  and  faints 

Far  up  in  air,  along  the  blue 

Still  shore  of  heaven,  and  into  spray 

Of  silvery  silence  dies  away 

' 

Now,  slowly,  softly  breaking  through 

The  mist  that  veils  departed  years 

With  half-shut  eyes  I  dimly  see 

A  picture  dear  as  life  to  me— 

The  place  where  I  was  born  appears — 

A  little  town  with  grassy  ways 

And  shady  streets,  where  life  hums  low, 

(A  place  where  world- worn  men  might  go 

To  calmly  close  their  fading  days.) 

One  simple  spire  points  to  the  skies 
Above  the  leafy  trees.     I  hear 

1 

The  old  Moravian  bell  ring  clear, 

But  see  no  more — tears  fill  my  eyes. 
No  more  have  I  in  that  dear  place 

A  home;   and  saddest  memories  cling — 

Ah,  sad  as  death — to  everything 

About  it.     But  by  God's  good  grace, 

Where'er  it  be  my  fate  to  die, 

Beneath  those  trees  in  whose  dark  shade 

The  first  loved  of  my  life  are  laid 

I  want  to  lie. 

' 

Copyright— By  Permission   of  A.  H.  Holland. 

Page  Sixteen 

